


we are all too young to die

by singmyheart (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Thor Odinson Is A Good Bro, this is a bucket of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:53:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/singmyheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce can't shake the fear, the anxiety, the dread that sets in when the phone rings; Pavlov's dog as physicist.</p><p>(Or: Bruce, when he's left behind while the other Avengers are out saving the world.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are all too young to die

**Author's Note:**

> bruce feels. title from "between two lungs" by florence + the machine. also available on [my tumblr.](http://rogersbutt.tumblr.com/post/51449207646/fic-we-are-all-too-young-to-die-tony-bruce-steve)

Bruce is always running; always has been, always will be. He is the one who leaves, usually with the shirt on his back and no notice if he can help it.

And so he supposes he has no right to feel left behind. Somehow he does, though, can’t shake that child’s fear of abandonment, the creeping anxiety and dread that settles in when the phone rings: Pavlov’s dog as physicist.

Of course, Tony calls him a hypocrite when he brings it up, on a lazy afternoon the three of them are spending in Steve’s bed, not doing much of anything. That’s not a surprise in and of itself; Tony is always doing this – carefully bullying him, all sharp edges that he does his best not to let get dulled by fondness. His face settles into its familiar hard, defensive lines and he calls Bruce by his last name, calls him a prick.

Steve chides him for it, and for a moment they’re on the familiar edge of an argument Bruce is too tired to mediate, but he sighs, at the last second looks as though the wind has gone out of his sails. He pulls Bruce to his chest instead, enfolds him in his solid arms and holds him there, doesn’t say anything. Bruce tries to fight him, at first, pushes back against the unforgiving muscle of his torso, but Steve doesn’t let him, waits until he gives up. He can probably hear the stream of curses and choked-off sobs Bruce is directing into his t-shirt. Steve just reaches out to include Tony, grip him by the back of his neck and pulls him toward the two of them. Tony wraps his arm around Bruce’s waist from behind, takes Steve’s hand in his, and they stay like that, for a while. Eventually Bruce’s throat is raw, scratchy, eyes red; Steve’s shirt is damp. Then they let him go, long enough to strip him and fuck him slow, close and quiet.

They won’t let him hide, merciless; Tony’s hand on his throat, Steve’s gripping his chin when he comes with a groan.

They sleep for a few hours, until Tony and Steve have to leave again. Bruce watches them suit up with a lump in his throat, wants to crawl out of his skin.

His stomach is churning when it’s time. He can feel the Other Guy getting restless in the back of his brain, pushes him aside for the moment, breathes deep until his heart rate slows. Tony slides Iron Man’s faceplate back to say goodbye; there is battle in his eyes. Bruce raps a knuckle against his shoulder, listens to it ding, hollow. “I hate this fucking thing,” he murmurs. Tony kisses him like a punch, all teeth, beard scraping his chin like sandpaper. Bruce spits blood when they separate.

Steve’s touch is a little gentler; no less strong, but softer, it works like a salve. Cowl pushed back, gloved hand heavy on his shoulder, Steve kisses him easily, calms him with the languid roll of his jaw. “Stay pretty,” Bruce tells him, skims a hand over the star on his chest. _Don’t die. Come back safe. Come home._

Steve chuckles, mirthless. “I’ll try.” _I will._

When they’re gone Bruce takes the elevator down to the windowless, reinforced room he and Tony have designed for occasions like this. He strips naked and waits for the familiar tinge of green on the edge of his vision, the ripple of hot, searing anger down his spine.

\--

Hulk smashes. Hulk is happy to smash. No people here, no noise or blood or bad. So Banner is upset. Hulk doesn’t mind; this means he can smash. Hulk smashes until he is tired, and then he sleeps.

\--

Bruce needs food and sleep – the Other Guy always wipes him out; about sixteen hours of sleep and his weight in bacon sandwiches are usually in order – but he wants to see the team home, whenever that might be. After three cups of coffee and a dozen unsuccessful attempts to read the battered copy of _American Gods_ Thor’s left on the kitchen counter again, Bruce decides he’ll make chili when everyone gets back, and rests his head on his folded arms, closes his eyes just for a minute.

He wakes up to Jarvis informing him, “Sir, the team has returned.”

“Thanks, J.” He groans, stretches and cracks his back, makes a mental note not to fall asleep at right angles anymore. “Getting too old for this shit,” he murmurs, crosses to the fridge to start on the food.

Thor joins him first: Clint and Natasha will be at SHIELD, and Tony and Steve are in the shower (he never joins them; it’s the closest thing they have to a sacred space).

“Doctor,” Thor greets him, tiredly but not devoid of warmth.

“Hey, Thor. How’d it go? Is everyone okay?”

He nods. “Indeed. What troubles you, friend?”

Bruce blinks. “Really, five seconds and—“ He breaks off, shakes his head. Sometimes he forgets how perceptive Thor is. “You know what, it’s nothing.”

“It isn’t,” Thor chides, but says nothing more, just washes his hands and starts chopping onions. Bruce lets it go. The chilli is simmering when the others start to wander in, exhausted and quiet but, true to Thor’s word, outwardly unscathed. Thor retreats immediately into his book; Clint and Natasha fall asleep on each other’s shoulders sitting at the breakfast bar.

Steve drops a kiss on top of Bruce’s head, brushes a hand down his side. “Mmmm. Smells amazing.”

“Hi,” Tony hums, rests his chin on Bruce’s shoulder, briefly, dips his finger into the pot to taste and burns it for his trouble, which doesn’t deter him from sticking it in his mouth anyway. They eat in companionable silence; Bruce freezes the leftovers when Steve’s attempt to nudge Natasha and Clint awake results in death threats in two languages.

\--

Later, the three of them fall asleep in a tangle of limbs and sheets in Steve’s bed, an old black-and-white movie playing low, Chaplin’s tramp swaggering for an unobservant audience. Pulled from pockets and ignored, all of their phones sit on the nightstand, silent.


End file.
